


Lovers and Admirers

by jordsie



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Bahorel is a Good Friend, Bahorel is a Teddy Bear, Enjolras Is Bad At Feelings, F/F, F/M, Language of Flowers, M/M, Multi, Slow Burn, bahorel has such a crush, grantaire needs love, jehan gets the love he deserves, jehan is perfect
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 18:39:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9671156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jordsie/pseuds/jordsie
Summary: Jehan owns their own tattoo parlour which is doing quite well. Well enough that it’s become a sort of meeting place for thei friends and they’re quite proud of what they’ve accomplished. That is, until Hercules, or someone very much like him, opens a flower shop directly across the street and God damnit Hercules you’re distracting me!





	1. Living Art

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Les Mis story so let me know what you think!

“Fucking hell,” The man called, his eyes screwed shut as the needle pierced the skin of his ribs again and again, “Shit, that hurts.” 

“I’m sorry,” Jehan replied, wincing sympathetically as they continued to work, “I promise, we’re nearly done. I’m just touching up this wave here, and then you’re free to go.” 

The man nodded, grinding his teeth to stop from whimpering but, thankfully, not cussing Jehan out like their customers were sometimes known to do. It wasn’t like they didn’t understand though, in fact most of the time Jehan was proud of how well their customers handled themselves while they worked on them. Tattoos could be very scary and Jehan knew, better than most, what an honour it was when someone came in specifically looking for a piece by them.  
“I want a Prouvaire original!” They would say, and Jehan would blush and thank them for their kind words, and then instantly get started on the design. 

“So,” Their current client, Bret, started, “why did you-fuck shit sorry-why did you get into tattooing?” 

Jehan thought for a moment. It was a question they got asked a lot, but it was always hard to answer, especially when they were so deep into their artistic zone. 

“Um, I guess I always wanted to be an artist,” they explained, their eyes still trained on Bret’s skin, “but I never really had the patience for it, and my art never really spoke to me. Two of my friends are artists, and their work…it’s so alive!” They explained, feeling the familiar rush of pride flow through them as they spoke, “My pieces were never like that. Well, not until I discovered tattoo art that is.” 

Bret laughed breathlessly, “Well thank God for that.”

Jehan smiled and acknowledged the compliment with a tip of their head, “And you? Is this your first tattoo?” 

He nodded and bit down hard on his fist as Jehan moved the needle over his rib. 

Jehan made a sympathetic noise in the back of their throat, “And you chose the ribs? Ouch.” They said with a kind laugh. 

Bret joined in, “Yeah, wasn’t my best idea.” He winced, “What was your first?” 

This made Jehan smile, they were very proud of their tattoos, and liked sharing stories with their clients; it made the work feel more personal. 

“This one,” they said, gesturing to the black scrawl on their right collarbone, “it was a gift from a friend.” 

“Hell yeah it was!” The familiar voice of his friend, Courfeyrac boomed, “A gift from your best friend.”

Jehan scoffed to themselves affectionately as Courf collapsed into the chair next to his and took a look at what Jehan was working on. 

“Sup, I’m Courfeyrac.” He introduced, shaking Bret’s hand enthusiastically, “This looks sick, you’re gonna love it. Our Jehan here is a genius.” 

chuckled through clenched teeth and Courfeyrac made a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat before engaging the man in some conversation or another. Jehan loved seeing Courf interact with new people, he had such a natural way about him, he couldn’t help but put people at ease and Jehan couldn’t help but think back to their first day at Courf’s old high school, how scared they’d been, how Courf had taken them under his wing and had never let anyone mess with them. They really were lucky to have him. 

“There you go,” they said with a tired sigh, cleaning Bret’s newly finished tattoo gently, “how do you like that?” 

The man gushed with the amount of enthusiasm Jehan was used to receiving from their clients, and they allowed themselves a brief moment of vanity. They really are very good at their job. 

As they waved Bret goodbye and wished the other artists working for them a good evening, Jehan let their mind drift and ran a hand over their tense shoulders. Courf stood beside them and they stared out into the fading light, at the abandoned building just across the road. 

“That really was stunning,” Courfeyrac told Jehan, “I’d say it was one of your better pieces.” 

Jehan smiled at their friend and bumped Courf with their shoulder companionably, “Better than yours?” 

“Oh hell no, mine are your seminal pieces, everyone knows that.” He replied, “Is the group coming by this evening?” 

Jehan nodded, “They should be here soon.” 

Courf gave Jehan a sideways look, worrying at his bottom lip; a habit he’d picked up for whenever he was nervous.

They sighed, giving Courfeyrac a reassuring smile, “Something on your mind Courf?” 

Courfeyrac flushed, embarrassed at being caught, “Is-uh-Montparnasse coming?” 

Jehan scowled, shifting from foot to foot, “No, I made it perfectly clear to him that him and his little gang are no longer welcome in this particular tattoo parlour.”

“Good,” Courf replied with a gentle smile, “how’re you doing? How’s the break up treating you?” 

They shrugged, “I’ve been better, obviously, but I’ve been worse too. On the plus side I’ve been channelling the pain into my writing; I’ve got some really good stuff. It feels-different this time, like it might actually stick.” 

Courfeyrac nodded and clapped Jehan on the shoulder, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of their head. 

“Well I’m proud of you. I know break-ups aren’t easy, and Montparnasse…I know that he was special to you.” 

Jehan snorted, “Please, you hated him from the beginning. You thought that he was bad news.” 

“Well was I wrong?” he retorted, raising his eyebrows at them, “He was bad news.” 

They gave Courf a rueful smile, “No, no you weren’t wrong.” 

Just then, the bell above the parlour door rang, and a clear voice pierced through the silence. 

“Am we late?” Joly asked, clinging to his boyfriend, Bossuet’s, hand, “Have we missed it?” 

“Joly we start at eight,” Courf responded with a laugh, “We’ve always started at eight.” 

He checked his watch and practically sagged with relief as Bosuette went about pulling up the tables and chairs that they always used for their club’s meetings. 

“Oh thank God.” Joly smiled, “Did you hear that mon canard? We’re not late!” 

Bosuette’s answering look was sickeningly loving as he pressed a kiss to Joly’s cheek. Joly let out a pleased hum in response.

“Of course we’re not mon beau, you think I would let us be late?” 

“What happened to your forehead?” Jehan asked, noticing the plaster above Bosuette’s eyebrow. 

He gave them a sheepish look, scratching the back of his neck absent mindedly, “I-uh-walked into a tree branch in the park.” 

Courfeyrac’s laughter was drowned out by the sound of bells as the rest of Jehan’s friends entered, their voices filling the parlour with the comforting sounds of friendship. It was impossible for Jehan to feel down about Montparnasse while their friends were around them, pulling them into hugs, pressing kisses to their cheeks and forehead. Oh yes, it was impossible to feel anything but loved in this company. 

Everyone took their seats just as Enjolras entered with Combeferre on his tail, and Courf stiffened beside Jehan. They chuckled to themselves at Courfeyrac’s dumbstruck expression, but didn’t ask what was so shocking about the sight of one of Courf’s oldest friend. A few days ago, Combeferre had come into the parlour looking to get a tattoo of his favourite constellation on the inside of his bicep and, of course, Jehan had been more than happy to oblige, not that he’d mentioned that to Courfeyrac. The result was that Combeferre was wearing a tight, white t-shirt instead of his usual button up oxford shirt, and Courfeyrac looked as though he were trying to swallow a watermelon. 

“Obvious much?” Jehan whispered to him, earning them a scowl from Courfeyrac before he rearranged his features into something slightly less pained. 

“Who’s bought the place across the street?” Combeferre asked Jehan as Enjolras started sorting through the various sheets of paper he’d brought. 

“Hmm?” Jehan asked, dragging his mind away from the tattoo that they were designing for Enjolras in their imagination, just in case he should ever decide that he wanted, one in order to focus on Combeferre’s question. 

“The place across the road,” Ferre repeated, “it’s been sold.” 

This got Jehan’s attention and they sat forward, “It has?” 

Combeferre nodded, “I saw the sign as we walked past.” 

Jehan raised their eyebrows and shrugged. Their parlour was in a trendy, up and coming part of town, filled with students and young people. It really shouldn’t have been surprising that a new place was opening, but…that building had been empty since before Jehan had opened their own shop. The idea of it being filled was, weird.

“As fascinating as that sounds guys, could we get started?” Enjolras said irritably. 

Everyone agreed, understanding well enough that Enjolras’ passion for hard work and dedication wasn’t personal, and the meeting began. They were planning a rally, protesting the lack of gender neutral bathrooms on local university campuses, which Jehan was usually exceptionally passionate about, having struggled with their own gender identity for most of their life, but they couldn’t stop looking out at the building across from theirs. They looked, and they wondered and, as the meeting continued, they wondered more.


	2. Your Neighbourhood Florist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bahorel has been waiting for this day for a long time, but for some reason when he imagined it, he’d neglected to imagine the human embodiment of sunlight working just across the street

Bahorel had been waiting for this day for a long time and, finally, it was here; the opening of his flower shop. It had been a long time coming, and God knows it hadn’t been easy, but it was here, and he couldn’t stop smiling about it. 

The building’s façade, which had, at first, been a dull grey, was now bright and clean with glistening green paint surrounding the windows facing the street and there, in bold letters above the door way, his sign: 

The Bloom Bloom Room. 

With artistic flowers painted as though they were weaving in and around the words. Grantaire had painted it for him, and it was Bahorel’s favorite part of the whole shop. The loaders were carrying in the last bunches of flowers, the wait staff were setting up the café on the floor above and Bahorel couldn’t stop staring. His shop. His. He owned a florist, he owned a café. He had a shop. His shop. 

“Baz, you coming in?” Grantaire asked, giving his friend an understanding smile, “The customers will be arriving soon. Can’t get started without our fearless leader now can we?” 

Bahorel laughed and took a deep breath in, trying to memorise the taste of the early morning air before taking a slow jog back into his shop. His shop. God, he couldn't get used to saying that.

Inside, everything was done up perfectly, with colourful bouquets on almost every surface, and a blackboard wall showing the prices of each type of flower and each arrangement. Upstairs, he knew, was a cross between a coffee shop and a bar, with comfortable chairs and books and an old record player that didn’t play music and was just there for The Aesthetic. Overall, he was exceptionally proud of what he’d managed to put together.   
Grantaire was leaning against the counter, his dark hair hanging around his shoulders in wet curls. Bahorel knew how difficult it was for Grantaire to get up and be productive this early in the morning and he truly appreciated his friend’s help. 

“Ready to get going then?” Grantaire asked. 

Bahorel nodded, “Damn right I am. Let’s get this party started.” 

The turnout for The Bloom Bloom Room’s opening was spectacular. People came from all over the city, flooding into the store in a steady stream. Being the person that he was, Bahorel tried to make sure he spoke to each and every customer, asking their opinions on the store, enquiring into their life and thanking them profusely for coming out. He got a lot of odd looks when people realised that he was the owner of the store, but he took it in his stride. I mean, how often do you see a 6’5, mixed martial arts fighter opening a flower shop? In Bahorel’s mind, not often enough. 

It was a surreal feeling, living the dream he’d had for so long, but it was also tiring so, at lunch time, he let Grantaire take over at the register, and stepped outside so as to interact with his cliental better. As he chatted amiably with a couple who had driven out all the way from the country after seeing his advertised event on social media, Bahorel noticed someone moving out of the corner of his eye. 

He turned to see who it was, and felt something swoop through his chest, like a gigantic bird. It was a person-no-it was the human version of sunlight, wrapped in a floral button up shirt and a lime green bowtie, with a thick braid that Bahorel could imagine threading flowers into and what looked like star shaped sequins underneath their blue eyes. This vision was bent over someone, tracing on their skin with a tattoo gun and Bahorel had to force himself to look away. It was stupid, and confusing and, for the first time in ages, Bahorel felt himself get nervous and, like the fully grown adult man he is, he instantly sprinted inside to gush to Grantaire. 

For the rest of the day, Bahorel alternated between trying to catch a glimpse of the tattoo artist from the counter of his store, and chastising himself for being creepy and swearing that he was going to stop. It didn’t help that Grantaire wouldn’t stop teasing him about it either, but he did his best to focus his mind on his work, after all, he was living his dream.  
\-------------- 

Meanwhile, across the road, Jehan had been watching the activity over at The Bloom Bloom Room with great interest. It had been a few months since Combeferre had pointed out that the place had a new owner and, by the looks of it, whoever it was had good taste. It made Jehan strangely happy to look out of their window and, instead of seeing dull grey paint and concrete, be met with bright colours and, now, an abundance of flowers. Jehan loved flowers, they thought that they were proof of a higher power, and most of their favourite tattoo designs featured flowers. 

It seemed like the shop was popular, with men and woman queueing up for a chance to get in, and Jehan was pleased to see it. Let no one ever say that Jehan Prouvaire begrudged anyone success. They remembered the opening of their own shop fondly and endeavoured to go over and introduce themselves to the owner once business hours were over.

Sometime around 11:00am, Enjolras came into the parlour to discuss plans for the upcoming rally. He’d asked Jehan to share their story with the public, and they’d been more than happy to oblige; after all, if anyone understood the need to have a safe place to explore their gender identity, it was Jehan. They talked for a while, Enjolras taking down notes while Jehan talked and doodled tattoo ideas in their notebook, alongside lines of poetry; until suddenly Jehan realised that Enjolras wasn’t asking questions anymore and was, instead, staring out across the road at something, with his mouth slightly open and a look on his face that Jehan had never seen Enjolras wear before.

Curious, Jehan followed his gaze and discovered that the object of Enjolras’ stricken look was, in fact, a man. He was tall, with long dark curls, and a body built like a boxer and, with the sunlight hitting his face, Jehan could see why Enjolras was so intrigued; he was beautiful. 

“Do you need a moment Enj?” Jehan asked gently, understanding too well the allure and power of infatuation at first sight. 

Enjolras shook his head, as though struggling to clear it and turned back to his notes, blushing fiercely and refusing to meet Jehan’s eyes. 

“Don’t-don’t be ridiculous.” He responded, making Jehan smile. 

After that brief interruption, Jehan kept a closer eye on the store. There was something familiar about the dark haired man that Jehan couldn’t quite put his finger on. It was during one of these moments that Jehan noticed a new presence, and experienced their own moment of surprise. 

There was a man coming out of the store, a ginormous man, with muscles so big that it made Jehan shiver. They watched as the man went down the queue, shaking people’s hands and smiling so wide that Jehan could see it from where he was sitting. Could this be the store’s owner? He looked more suited to fighting, body building or, Jehan admitted to themselves, modelling than floristry, but Jehan knew better than most not to judge based on a person’s appearance. There was something fascinating about the man, something that made him want to put ink on his smooth skin. It was a horribly distracting feeling.

“Jehan?” Enjolras prodded. 

“Hmm?” They replied, “Right, sorry, I’m back. What was the question again?”   
\---------------- 

Before Bahorel knew it, the day was coming to a close and Grantaire was ushering people either upstairs into the café, or out the door with a cheerful wave while Bahorel leant against the wall and ran a hand over his face, exhausted.   
After the bottom floor was completely evacuated, Bahorel pulled his friend into a bone crushing hug, laughing incredulously as it hit him, for the millionth time that day, that this way actually happening. 

“Day one, fucking nailed it.” Grantaire cheered, “Good job dude, I’m proud of you.” 

“What’re you talking about? I couldn’t have done any of this without you R, you’re my motherfucking right hand man in this.” 

Grantaire shrugged and clapped Bahorel on the shoulder, pulling out of the hug. He gestured with his head to the staircase that led to the top floor. 

“Wanna get a drink to celebrate?” he asked with a mischievous smile. 

Bahorel chuckled, “Do you really think I’m dumb enough to get a drink with you in my own establishment? Do you really think I, as a business owner, would agree to serve us? Hell no, we’ll go trash someone else’s dream thank you very much.” 

Grantaire threw his head back and laughed, a full sound that bounced from wall to wall and, to Bahorel’s relief, actually reached his eyes. He loved Grantaire, they’d been best friends for years now and Bahorel knew, better than most, how much Grantaire battled on a daily basis and how much he’d overcome just to be standing in front of Bahorel right now. So it always made him happy when he could help Grantaire feel good for a while. 

“Smart man,” Grantaire retorted, “keep making good decisions like that and this place might just make it.” 

As Bahorel opened his mouth to reply, his front door swung open and he turned to face the late comers. 

“Florist is closed, but the café’s still-“ he started, his voice dying in his throat as he made eye contact with the most stunning and unusual person he’d ever met. 

It was the floral t-shirt, lime green bowtie, human embodiment of sunshine, tattoo artists who had been flitting in and out of Bahorel’s mind for the entire day. He was so stunned by their sudden appearance in his shop that he momentarily lost the ability to speak and realised, too late, how terrible that must’ve looked. 

“Hi,” he eventually smiled, “I’m Bahorel. I own this place.” 

The person smiled back, taking his hand to shake, “Jehan Prouvaire, and this is my friend Enjolras, I own the tattoo parlour across the street.” 

Bahorel nodded, “The Romant-inks? I’ve heard of it, love the name by the way.” 

Jehan blushed, and Bahorel couldn’t help but think that he’d very rarely seen anything more adorable than that. Of course, at that moment, Jehan’s eyes focussed on something just over Bahorel’s shoulder, and their face split into a radiant smell. Bahorel promptly decided that he’d been wrong, that was the most adorable thing that he’d ever seen. 

“Grantaire!” Jehan gushed, pulling Bahorel’s friend into a tight embrace, “I thought I’d recognised you!” 

Grantaire smiled and chuckled fondly at the smaller person, giving Bahorel a knowing smile. 

“Hey, Hanny,” he smiled, ruffling their hair, “thought we might run into you.”

Jehan rolled their eyes, “Hanny? Really R?”

Bahorel was stunned, but not nearly as stunned, it seemed, as Jehan’s companion, who looked as though someone had lit a furnace under his skin. 

“Ah, you love me Hanny.” R teased, his eyes darting up to Jehan’s companion every few seconds, “It’s Enjolras, right?” he asked.

The man nodded, “Y-yes, and you’re Grantaire.” 

It wasn’t a question. 

Grantaire noticed, raising his eyebrows, “I am.” He turned back to Bahorel, “This is my friend Jehan, he was at university with us. He’s part of that social activism bullshit club I told you about.” 

“R,” Jehan drawled affectionately, “be nice.” 

“I’ll have you know that the Friends of the ABC is a very serious organisation and we’ve made some real progress.” The blonde man, Enjolras huffed, obviously offended.

Bahorel winced, sensing the direction that this conversation was going. Grantaire was famously cynical. He believed in individuals without reservation, but rarely invested in causes, and had almost no regard for any sort of ‘collective humanity’. In his own mind, Bahorel was inclined to believe him, but he was willing to fight for it anyway. 

As Bahorel expected, Grantaire snorted, “That so?” he teased, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “And what exactly have you accomplished with regards to actual change?” 

Enjolras frowned, opening his mouth to argue, but, to Bahorel’s relief, Jehan stopped him. 

“Please, let’s not argue.” They pleaded and gave Bahorel an apologetic look, “We came to congratulate you on the opening of your store,” they explained, “this place looks…amazing.”

A balloon of pride swelled up in Bahorel’s chest and it was almost without his consent that he responded, “You’ve only seen half. Would you like to come upstairs?” 

He smiled encouragingly, and had the genuine urge to laugh with delight when Jehan agreed. Bahorel lead the group up the stairs, making casual small talk and trying to avoid upsetting the still indignant-looking Enjolras. Once they reached the café, Jehan made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a squeal, and Bahorel flushed with pride.   
The four sat down in Bahorel’s favorite corner, the one filled with squishy armchairs that’s not too close to the fire or the window and Grantaire, like the amazing wingman he is, suggested that he and Enjolras go order drinks for everybody. 

Jehan smiled at them as they walked away and turned to Bahorel, crossing his legs and looking disturbingly at home in Bahorel’s little café. For a new place, it was almost completely packed, and filled with that comforting buzz of life that made Bahorel’s heart swell. At the end of the day, this is why he’d opened The Bloom Bloom Room in the first place; he just loved people. 

“Bahorel this place is amazing.” Jehan said genuinely, rousing him from his daydreams, “But I have to say-“ 

“It doesn’t seem like the sort of place someone like me would enjoy?” Bahorel finished, without bitterness. 

Jehan nodded, blushing again, and Bahorel nodded. 

“I just wanted to create something beautiful you know? Whether they were book nerds or movie stars, or people like me, somewhere were everyone was welcome, and flowers…” He trailed off, realising that he was dangerously close to rambling. 

“And flowers?” Jehan prompted, with their head in their hands, looking absolutely riveted. 

Bahorel shrugged self-consciously, “Flowers make people happy. They’re just-they’re really really rad.” 

Jehan chuckled gently, “That they are, and this place?” they gestured to the café, “What inspired this?” 

“I wanted people to have a safe space where they can just relax, listen to some music, read a book, have a cup of coffee and recuperate.” Bahorel tried to explain, “I studied law at university, and after years of working with people who were angry and sad, or stressed out of their minds…” he shook his head, “I guess I just thought that I’d be able to do more good this way, you know?” 

Jehan’s eyes were bright, and their smile was far fonder than Bahorel was expecting it to be after having known one another for less than an hour. Not that he minded of course, he respected vulnerability, and he’d never been particularly good with politeness and social cues anyway. 

“I do.” They responded. 

“What about you?” Bahorel explained, “How’d you meet R?” 

Jehan smiled fondly at the memory, “He stopped some guys from picking on me about the way I dress back in first year. After that,” they shrugged, “we just clicked I guess. He’s a good person, underneath all that pseudo-pessimism.” 

“Oh I most definitely agree with you there, although your little blonde buddy might not.” He teased. 

They laughed, and it was a warm, comforting sound that made Bahorel smile. 

“Enjolras isn’t half as tough as he’d like everyone to believe. He just really, really believes in things you know? He has to fight against injustices I think, otherwise he’d just explode.” Jehan assured, “In fact I think…” they trailed off, looking back to where Enjolras and Grantaire seemed to be arguing quietly, “I think they could be good for each other, friendship wise.” 

“And us?” Bahorel asked quickly, before he could lose his nerve, “Think we could be friends?” 

Again, Jehan blushed, and Bahorel remarked to himself that it really was unfair how adorable that was. Although, when Jehan nodded, he stopped complaining.

“Y-yeah.” They stammered, “Yes, I think that that would be nice.”

**Author's Note:**

> Some Translations!  
> mon carnard - my duck (I know, but its an actual pet name)  
> mon beau - my beautiful one


End file.
